A Memory from the Past
by Sophia Rose Brentwood
Summary: Hetalia fanfic, USUK. Nation names used. July the 4th is approaching for America, and England is in pain. He still hasn't healed from what has happened between him and the man he used to love, and is suffering. What will happen when America notices, and refuses to leave England's side?


Chapter One-The Rain

It was raining, the droplets of water cold as they splattered onto his upturned face. England sighed, pulling his coat tightly around himself as he walked to his home. Suddenly, he was struck with a memory of _that _day. It had been raining that day, too…

Quickly, before he had a chance to dwell on the memory, he shook himself, and quickened his homeward bound stride. Lately, he had been thinking a lot about then, but he couldn't afford to brood over those horrible, horrible times anymore. Still, the momentary remembrance of that one day stabbed a shard of pain into his heart, as did every memory of that day and those times. Reaching his home, he burst through the door, tossing his coat, soaked from the downpour. England made a beeline for his soft couch, and threw himself face first onto the cushions. He could feel tears rising to his eyes. He clenched his jaw, stifling tears as the earlier memory of that day came to him, crystal clear as if it had happened yesterday. He could still see America, standing over him with his musket, looking so sure, and so powerful, completely different from the child America England cared for back in the good times. That day, England could remember every fleeting moment, and every emotion he felt. Anger, sadness, and pain were prominent, but England could also remember those moments when he, as he looked up at the strong, proud America, felt the slightest bit of pride that his little America had grown up to be such a _man_. England had cried so much that day, salty tears, tears of the weak. But not now, no, now, England refused to ever be that weak again. After a minute or two, he sat up, semi-composed once more. Still, and aching pain engulfed his heart, squeezing it like a vice. England clutched a hand to his chest, right above his pained soul.

Why was it hurting so much, this many years later? America and the rest of the world had moved on from this long, long ago, so why couldn't he? And why was it hitting him so hard now? Deep down, though, he knew. It was the date. As the calendar grew ever closer to the anniversary of that day, he was pained more and more. England was fine at the World Meetings and when he had to work with America the rest of the year; the memories were confined to a dank corner of his mind then, but now, as the anniversary of that day and the celebration that followed it, the pain and sadness was threatening to overwhelm him again, just like it had when it first happened.

England recalled those wretched days, those days where he couldn't stand to rise in the morning, the new and strange silence in his house was the physical manifestation of the void in his life that America had previously filled. All of the things that reminded England that he was not alone were gone, taken with America. There was nothing left in those days. He spent hours staring at the same spot on the ceiling above his bed, zombie-like in the aftershock coming from America's new found independence. For days, England hardly slept, hardly ate, hardly did anything more than breathe. England couldn't even get past the pain enough to think in those days. About a week of this half-dead state ensued before England could pull himself together enough to make his resolve. After then, England swore that he would never be that weak again, and he would never depend on anyone, especially as much as he had depended on America, ever again. It was a lonely resolve, but, he reasoned, it was the only thing he could do to prevent getting hurt like that again. So, with that, England buried his emotions, and refused to admit to himself just how much he missed America, even now.

"Yo, England!" A painfully familiar voice reached out to England. He turned towards the voice with a start, facing the aforementioned America. England's eyes widened.

"H-How…?" He managed. America shrugged.

"I saw you walk by through the window in the fast food place I was at, and you looked pretty upset, so I got my food and came over. You know, I couldn't just let you be upset. I am the hero after all." He said, grinning. England froze, the familiar smile tearing another hole in his heart. He plopped down on the couch next to the Brit, placing a fast food sack on the coffee table, rambling about something. England bit the inside of his cheek, trying not to let how much he missed America show on his face. "Oh, here." America said, tossing a wrapped burger to England. "I got you a burger. When I'm not happy, or something really sucks, it helps if I have a burger sometimes. Figure it might cheer you up a bit." America flashed another cheery smile. England looked down at the paper wrapping, clenching his free hand. It was cruel, how America could be so happy, so carefree, when England was in such pain. "Now, what's bothering you?"

"Leave." England whispered, glaring down at his carpet. America halted, mid-sentence.

"What?"

"I said, leave!" England yelled, his hand clenched so tightly, his nails were probably drawing blood. America sighed.

"Nope. Sorry, but I think I want to hang around for a bit." With a wink, America took a large bite out of his burger. He began to go on about some game Japan had let him borrow, but England couldn't discern what he was saying through the food, nor did he think it was anything very important. Still angry, he listened to the American.

After a while, America's narrative never stopping, England was feeling a bit better. Eating together, talking, sitting together, England felt like he was back in the old times, before America left him. He leaned on his hand, looking up at the younger nation fondly. America paused, giving England a curious look.

"Dude, what are you looking at me so weirdly for?" he asked. England started, and turned away quickly.

"I-I'm…. Never mind me, just keep on with your incessant chatter." The older could feel a slight blush rising to his cheeks as America remained silent, his gaze boring into England.

"Has everything been okay with you lately? You've been acting a bit off when we're at World Conferences, and you don't stay for anything other than the meetings. Usually you would stay and talk or work with everyone. So, what's up?" England bit his lip, hearing the concerned note in the younger nation's voice.

"Nothing's wrong. Don't worry about me." _You certainly didn't worry about me then…_

"Look at me and tell me you're fine." England sucked in a breath. He had never been able to lie to his face. Those crystal blue eyes compelled him to honesty with one look. But not this time, England assured himself. This time, he could do it. He gathered up his strength and turned, looking straight on at America. The latter looked a tad surprised at the sudden turnabout, and his expression was one that England had seen many times when America was still a child. This caused slight crack to form in his resolve, but he plowed through, staring the younger down.

"I'm completely fi-ne." England's eyes widened. His voice had cracked a bit on the last word. Quickly, he stood, rubbing the back of his head.

"England?"

He looked away from America. "Er, I have…a lot of work to do. Please, show yourself out." And with that, he strode out of the living room, shutting himself in his office. There was a long silence, before the sound of America's footsteps slowly left Britain's home once more. England covered his face with his hand, leaning his back on the door. He slid to the floor, collapsing, and cried. Wet, salty, painful tears.


End file.
